


A change of priorities

by Limey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:15:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Limey/pseuds/Limey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John’s lingering anger was gradually displaced by a need for some sort of closure to his grief, and he wasn't going to get it by just staring mutinously at Sherlock."</p>
<p>Sherlock returns to Baker Street only six months after his "death", rubbing a handful of salt into John's raw and open wounds with a case. Can anything go back to how it was, and more importantly, should it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A change of priorities

**Author's Note:**

> Out of the writing saddle for a while; toe dipped back in. With thanks to the inimitable Hoshigatta for proofing! Critique always welcomed. I'll be posting chapter by chapter as I get time - I wanted to start posting this up before it officially becomes AU with Series Three. I've tagged for (some!) eventualities.
> 
> *

It was a perfectly ordinary, gloomy December evening. Rain tapped lightly on the sitting room window at 221B Baker Street, the curtains already closed to conceal the grey streets beyond.

John was drinking a cup of tea, watching the six o'clock news with no real enthusiasm, as had become his casual habit. He wasn't really interested in hearing whether the opposing political party's new road-building scheme was really worth taxpayer's money, or that someone had successfully swam the Channel in record-breaking time.

"Police continue to investigate the series of break-ins in Stratford..."

That held John's interest for all of a few seconds before he slumped back into his silent thoughts, taking another sip from his cup, letting the words from the television drift past him, catching the odd phrase here and there. It felt like a long time had passed since he used to listen out for his own name on television.

It was six months or so; John had stopped keeping track of the days. It felt like it had been around that period of time: the weather had turned cold, the nights were dark, curious news reporters had ceased following him in and out of his front door, and the mysterious black cars that were always parked in the same place on the opposite side of the street every day no longer lingered either.

"... And over to Susan for the weather."

John stared blankly as the lady on-screen proceeded to inform him that the drizzle outside would continue overnight, with patchy sunshine spreading across the South-East tomorrow, which would make his planned walk to ASDA and back more bearable.

He frowned very slightly; he couldn't remember the last time he had listened to the weather on television. With a jolt he realised of course he hadn't, because _Sherlock_ would have informed him without fail (and with supreme disdain) if he ought to wear a jacket before leaving the house, and if asked why, would respond with a long-winded explanation of how the density of the cumulus clouds on a ten-mile-per-hour wind would mean that the rain would miss Bristol but fall on London, or some such, and if further interrogated, would witheringly add that he didn't want his blogger to be sick when he needed him during a case.

John set his tea down, putting his head in his hands.

Grief didn't make sense, and Ella said it didn't have to, that it would take time. But it was stupid, and John knew that _he_ would have said as much, if he were here, seeing him crumple over watching the _bloody weather forecast_ of all things.

"A wet week overall; back to the George in the studio."

John got up abruptly from his armchair, picking up his wallet from the table. Suddenly a trek to the shops in the rain seemed more appealing than not-watching television. He couldn't stand sitting in this miserable, lonely flat, facing the dullness of his life without Sherlock: his company, his cases, the frenetic rollercoaster ride that came with the territory of his friendship.

He wasn't sure what to do next. Mrs Hudson had very kindly granted him some leniency in the rent while he either found somewhere new to live or a new flatmate, but as everyone knew his name was associated with Sherlock Holmes, he was having little luck: and to be fair, he hadn't had much heart in it. Prospective flatmates had often enough turned out to be reporters, and no one was willing to offer serviceable accommodation to the friend of a fraudster. Fortunately, Mrs Hudson seemed to like having him around, as she had not pushed him to look harder.

For now, he needed milk and bread, and that gave him a distraction to think about. He stopped by the front door, eyeing his jacket briefly before he stepped outside without it: one small act of rebellion in Sherlock's absence, at least.

He wasn't wet through by the time he returned, but he was a bit cold and damp around the edges, glad to step through the door into the comparative warmth. He felt marginally better for his walk, and he was considering an evening plan of running a hot bath after dinner, drinking a few beers in front of the telly and calling it an early night.

He stumbled over a box on his way back into the sitting room, cursing. He and Mrs. Hudson together had packed up a lot of Sherlock's things, but John hadn't yet found the heart to give them away. Part of him had been so desperately convinced he was alive that it felt like a betrayal, so the boxes had remained. John had also forgotten to label the boxes when he first started, and he wasn't sure he wanted to explain to Oxfam or Barnados why he had donated a slightly stained, used autopsy kit or jars of bisected mouse brains.

He stepped into the sitting room, checking his feet as he went for stray boxes. It was only when he looked up that he froze, as he saw who was sitting in the armchair - the _other_ armchair, _his_ armchair - turning to face him.

"Hello, John."

John's eyes widened, and he dropped the shopping bags. No. No no no no no. He was dead, it had been six months now, _he was dead_. He brought a hand up to his forehead, prodding his face, because if nothing else John wanted to know if this was a "just" an audio-visual hallucination from tiredness or a sign of impeding mental breakdown.

Sherlock merely smiled as he got to his feet. "Sorry it took so long, but I had to wait until all the reporters stopped camping at the front door, or it would have been thorough waste of pretending to be dead. They were very persistent to hang around so long, the press less so than the government agents, but that's Mycroft for you I suppose, stubborn. Oh, I used a disguise to get in, if you were wondering, so that makes you the first to know. Well, second – Molly helped with faking the suicide."

There was a long pause after this declaration. Sherlock didn't expect the first blow to the face, the sitting room lamp - and Sherlock with it - crashing to the floor. Before he was even given a chance to query or protest, John was atop him, knocking over the side table in his haste to continue punching him.

"John -!" Sherlock tried to reason from behind his arms. He was winded out of further words: he might have protected his face, but he had exposed his ribs. If he had been facing any other assailant, he would not have made such a foolish move.

John snarled in a blind rage, punching whatever of Sherlock he could reach. "You - goddamn - son of a - "

John had got the element of surprise, but he was not successfully making much contact now Sherlock was defending himself. He wasn't using his military training or precision, just acting on raw and overflowing emotions. He could see just how easily Sherlock was able to parry his attacks using his legs and arms - but damn if it didn't feel satisfying, having a physical outlet for his grief and anger, everything Sherlock had ever put him through, wanting to punch the smugness, the cleverness that brought him back here right out of him.

"John- John! Would you - stop - hitting me?"

Apparently having reached the limits of his endurance, Sherlock's fist suddenly connected with John's jaw, sending the other man sprawling back, giving the taller man an opening to push John off of him by using his legs.

John was undeterred, springing forward across the floor with a roar, "damn you, Sherlock!"

The coffee table fell onto its side as the two men continued to scuffle on the floor, Sherlock fighting back, grabbing one of John's arms to prevent a further rain of blows.

"Yes - _alright_ \- " Sherlock had had enough, he was getting dizzy. John had banged his head on the floor, as well as bruised him all over, and he thought that the other man had very well made his point. "John, enough - please."

Hearing Sherlock's small plea for mercy made the flames of John's anger flicker. He was still tense, still holding a suit lapel in one fist, hackles raised and teeth bared.

They were now staring at each other, panting with exertion, and sizing up the other for further blows. John was more than half-inclined to continue beating the crap out of Sherlock.

"Would you," Sherlock breathed, swallowing some of his own blood (John had given him a split lip), "at least give me - the chance - to apologise?"

John relented, still glaring, breathing heavily through his nose. He released his grip on the jacket and sat back, lowering his guard, but not taking his eyes off of the other man. Sherlock followed suit, picking himself up from the floor and offered John a hand up, which he accepted, grudgingly, with a stream of muttered curses.

A few minutes later, there were two cups of tea on the newly uprighted side table, a man in each armchair, and icepacks pressed to bruised skin. Neither of them had spoken since the fight, working around each other in awkward silence: the tea and icepacks a gesture of a truce provided by each side. They sat facing each other, a long and uncomfortable silence stretching out between them.

John's lingering anger was gradually displaced by a need for some sort of closure to his grief, and he wasn't going to get it by just staring mutinously at Sherlock.

"So," he tested the movement of his jaw with a wince, the swelling having gone down since applying ice to it, "how did you do it?"

"Do what, exactly?" Sherlock asked, frowning, trying to focus on John with one eye, holding an icepack over the other.

"Fake your death. I mean, I saw it. I saw you -" John broke off, his throat closing up as he recalled the pain, the memory vivid, filling him with burning sickness and terror. The images, the sound of squelching, the cracking sound of a body hitting the pavement echoing in his mind. He still couldn't quite believe he was seeing Sherlock, sitting in his old armchair like he had never left.

Despite how much he hated to remember it, he needed to know the truth. To know he wasn't dreaming.

Sherlock mercifully seemed to understand John's hung sentence, not requesting further clarification. His voice was matter-of-fact, like it always was when he had gathered the facts of a case.

"Moriarty wouldn't have agreed to meet me unless he was certain he would succeed. I could have kept playing his game, you know," he said, suddenly sounding slightly defensive. He was not admitting that he could have ever lost, John knew, and he suppressed the want to argue in favour of listening.

"But if I wanted him to stop, then the game had to end. There had to be a winner, and a loser. His win would my disgrace: and how far, how low, would that disgrace be? What might he have done to everyone else in London to humiliate me, had I kept playing? My death might be the only thing left to make it end.

"So I spoke to Molly, and we made up a dead body to superficially resemble me."

"But I saw you fall," John protested. His voice cracked with remembered pain, and incredulity: Sherlock before him was evidence that he was alive, _but_ \- "I saw you and I spoke to you!"

Sherlock looked sombre, and gingerly removed the ice from his eye. John was rather gratified to see it squint-shut and purpling over his stupid, pretty face, along with his swollen lower lip.

"And so you did. But it wasn't me buried at the funeral."

"Clearly not," John tried to sardonically retort, but his voice still sounded like it had seized in his chest.

Sherlock's eyes darted over John briefly. He paused, before he continued slowly, "Moriarty would do anything to win, so I had to be prepared to die. And I was right. He told me to end his game, my body falling from the building would be the signal that would stop assassins coming after you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade."

"He actually planned for you to kill yourself," John breathed, both appalled and amazed at the depth Moriarty had put into his scheme – and how close he, himself, would have been to death if he or Sherlock had deviated from that plan in any way. "So you knew you were walking into a trap."

"Not a trap; that had long since sprung. It was the endgame." Sherlock spoke as if this was obvious, and John felt a strange sense of affection for that familiar arrogance. What was the trap, he wondered? But the other man continued, "The fact remained I had to be seen to fall from the building, and it either had to me, or someone who looked very much like me, and I had very little time to prepare. I owe Molly Hooper a great deal."

"Molly? S-sorry, what did Molly do?" John frowned, recognising this familiar pattern of conversation between them: Sherlock getting miles ahead of himself, and John ever having to sound the idiot to get him to slow down. On a good day, it was hard to keep up with Sherlock: at that moment, the thought that filled every part of his brain was the rewind, play, repeat as Sherlock toppled from the roof of St. Bart's...

"Be herself," Sherlock answered, obliquely. "Out of Moriarty's line of sight. In the background. I needed to know what - if anything - could keep a dying man alive, even if it meant only clinging to life by a thread.

"She raided St. Bart's dispensary for the drugs I needed: to slow my heart, my brain. To keep my blood inside me whilst in a self-induced coma, maximise my chances of survival."

Sherlock sounded calm, but his eyes were glowing with the recollection.

John shook his head in disbelief, anger bubbling up inside him. He was unsure if it was from being lied to, or if it was because Sherlock was speaking like this was the usual dramatic wrap-up to a case, or both.

He took a deep breath, because while Sherlock was generally smarter than just about anyone, John was, in fact, an expert in this area. "Sherlock, as a doctor, I know there is no damn way just a few drugs could stop you dying from a fall from that height."

"Of course not. Molly also purchased an impact vest on my behalf." Sherlock looked exceedingly smug.

"Sherlock..." John said warningly, knowing by now when he was being toyed with.

"I haven't finished, John, and I've had no one to tell it to for six months, humour me, will you?" Sherlock answered tetchily. There was a pause, where he waited to see if John would flare up again, but he remained silent, attentive. Taking that as a sign, he continued more animatedly, "Yes, alright, I didn't really _need_ to use either of them, but they were necessary: why? Because of Mycroft. He was never going to accept the first explanation to come out of the press, so I needed a second plan for him to find, to placate him. He would hardly believe I had made such a fatal mistake as to overdose, but he would believe _enough_ for my purposes."

John let out a faint half-laugh despite himself. Yes, that sounded just like one of Sherlock's mad plans, and it almost made sense. Mycroft was as obsessive as Sherlock, and very much over-involved in the welfare of his little brother, of course he would analyse anything that indicated the death of his brother scrupulously, and he would have not let Sherlock slip away to... wherever he had gone. God, there was still too much he didn't know.

Wearily, he prompted Sherlock - because that was his role here, it seemed, to hear his genius plan before the other man imploded under the strain of keeping it quiet - "So the real plan was...?"

"Wires, and a different combination of drugs to create a convincingly death-like state. After Moriarty shot himself, I didn't have much time to spare - and thank god for Molly's help. I had a harness on under my coat, and suspension wire. I didn't exactly get seven years like David Copperfield for the set-up, so it was going to hurt - but a few broken ribs was a significant improvement on instant death. The drugs helped with the pain. A bit."

"A magician's trick," John said, slowly, trying to process what Sherlock was saying, aligning it with what he had seen – and felt – that terrible day.

"Yes. An illusion." Sherlock's eyes and tone suddenly softened, as if realizing where he had got to in this story. "When I jumped, the wire was attached to the roof, and the walls. I had sent Molly a message on my phone in those final seconds. She had hired the lorry that went past when I fell. Timing was everything - the wire pulled tight before I landed, I had the wire snap so I fell the remaining distance to the pavement; the wire retracted. Molly removed the rest of the wire from the roof as soon as she received the signal. The blood bag that I split against my head made for a convincing spill to hide that there was no head wound. The drugs worked remarkably quickly after that; I assume I must have looked convincing."

"Of course. Simple. Brilliant. Clever." John's voice was acidic, sarcastically emulating his normal awe of Sherlock's genius. His brain could barely absorb any more of the facts, mixed as they were with painful emotions. He couldn't take it.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, before he answered. "It was anything but simple."

He paused, his gaze moving away from John, staring beyond him at the fleur-de-lis wallpaper. "There was one more part of the plan, and it was the most difficult. And that was to do as Moriarty wanted."

"And what was that, the jump?"

"No. It was to have you witness it."

There was a long pause whilst this information was absorbed.

"Me?" John looked as bewildered and pained as he felt. Why had he had to see it? It had been one of the worst days of his life. "I – I don't understand."

Sherlock took a deep breath, and John suddenly realised in that moment that it was real regret he could hear in the other man's voice. "That was the trap, John. That Moriarty knew I would have to make it you. My only friend."

"He - how - why -"

"Moriarty didn't intend that I die." Sherlock said, flatly. "What would be the point of ruining my name, if I wasn't alive to live with my disgrace? No, it was just another way for him to burn me. To 'burn the heart out of me'. You remember." Sherlock's lips twisted. "You believed in me, and I would have to publicly, heartlessly betray you.

"Whoever saw me fall needed to recognise my face, know the Moriarty case in intimate detail, have my phone number to authenticate my final confession, and not examine my body too closely. Whoever saw me fall would have to believe what they saw, without question."

Something clicked for John, something that up until now had been buried amongst his memories of trauma. "The man on the bicycle -"

Sherlock nodded, and seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "I couldn't have you get too close."

John shook his head, as it all came flooding back, clear as day. And now he knew it had all been a lie.

He swallowed, closing his eyes. He was terrified of the answer to the question, the question he had to ask.

"Why didn't you just tell me...?"

He almost managed to say it without his voice breaking.

"Moriarty was watching your every move: I couldn't risk it. Moreover, you would be the most likely candidate assumed to be my accomplice if there was any trace of fakery. That being the case, it was likely you would be investigated thoroughly after my death, so your witness account had to be genuine. Whoever saw me fall would need to tell the truth, to give the police an impeccable account of what took place. Someone whose story that they saw Sherlock Holmes fall to his death would be impossible to doubt."

Sherlock shook his head slightly, replacing the icepack over his eye. "And you believed in me," he said, simply. "You didn't believe anything Moriarty spun you; for not one moment did you express any doubt of me in the face of the most plausible of explanations."

"You needed me to tell the truth to cover your lie," John concluded, anger returning his voice to him.

"I learned that from Moriarty," Sherlock pointed out dispassionately, ignoring the outraged expression on his friend's face. "Moriarty also successfully demonstrated that there is indeed more than one way to destroy a man. You were right, John," Sherlock said suddenly, "everything you said, when it all started. And you believed in me, all the way to the end."

"More fool me, then!" John exploded, turning away to try and put a lid on his temper: the result was his voice full of bitterness. "You know, I cried over you at your funeral, I've been followed everywhere by reporters wanting to me to tell all about my best friend, the liar. Everyone else kept asking me when you would be back, I've had nightmares worse than anything I ever remembered from Afghanistan, seeing you fall over and over. You don't know what I've been through."

"That's why I came back," Sherlock said suddenly. "As soon as I realised I wasn't protecting you; I was _destroying_ you." He paused, and added, "I am... sorry."

John was too stunned to interrogate Sherlock's statement. Had he just heard the other man apologise?

Sherlock took in his widened eyes and pressed lips, nodding, reading his disbelief. "John... I am sorry. Truly sorry."

"... Since when do you ever apologise," John grumbled, his shoulders dropping, and after a pause, picked up his tea.

"Since I was actually wrong, and you were right," Sherlock answered, with something approaching humility. "Don't get used to it." He added, ruining the effect entirely.

John gave him a thin smile, taking another sip of tea. That sounded about right.

"I know that you are still angry." Sherlock paused, looking for the right words. John sensed what some of those words might be, and John wasn't sure if he wanted to answer something harsh, just to spite him. "You were, and still are, my only friend."

"That's not something you get to decide, you know," John said, before he could stop himself. Sherlock was so one-sided about everything, for once, he wanted him to know what it felt like to face losing someone.

"I know," Sherlock said quietly. "That's what I was about to ask."

Damn, when Sherlock put it like that... John felt his insides twist. It wasn't that simple. He felt betrayed, hurt, and yes, still very angry. But he nodded, slowly exhaling.

There was more to talk about, a lot of feelings John needed to work through, and a lot that Sherlock needed to answer for, but -

Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and John were safe because of Sherlock. He had been given the worthy adversary he had always hungered to prove himself against, to prove how clever he was. But he had chosen to forfeit the game to save them.

That wasn't the reason he wanted them to remain friends: he had long known that Sherlock, in fact, did care. Even if Sherlock himself would never admit it to anyone.

No, Sherlock was rude and arrogant and had hurt him like the bullet to his shoulder never had, but he hadn't purposefully intended to hurt him. And more than anything - John had _missed_ him.

"Good." Sherlock's tone turned perfunctory, and he got up, walking over to his desk, unceremoniously shoving a box on the floor and sweeping aside some papers to reveal his laptop. "I assume you haven't changed the wireless password."

"Don't think that I am just going to forgive you, just like that," John burst out warningly, glaring at Sherlock. "You put me through hell." He watched as Sherlock returned to his armchair, flipping open his laptop lid. "In fact, why on earth am I just letting you waltz back in here like you still have your name on the lease?"

"Because I do," Sherlock said, now busily typing.

"You what?"

"My name _is_ still on the lease. Or at the very least, my estate, administered by Mycroft, is. Mrs. Hudson didn't give _that_ much of a discount on the monthly rent, you _do_ realise this is central London?"

John slumped back into his chair and closed his eyes. He ought to be elated that Sherlock was alive, but right now he just felt exhausted. Sherlock was always exhausting, but this was just too much for one day.

"So what happens now?" He asked wearily, since Sherlock always had an answer for everything.

"Well, first –" Sherlock began.

They both heard the front door open, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs accompanied by Mrs. Hudson's voice calling out, "John? Jooooohn? Are you alright?"

Sherlock sprung up from his chair at once, stopping to whisper by John's ear, "I'll be in my room, don't tell her I'm here, and remove that second teacup before she reaches the door." With those parting words, he carried his laptop into his old room.

John muttered dark curses - Sherlock could have taken the cup along with him - putting down his icepack and hurriedly disposing of the spare tea in the kitchen before answering the door with faux-cheerfulness. "Ah, Mrs. Hudson!"

"Hello, John dear. Sorry to pop ‘round so suddenly but Mrs. Turner called me; said she heard an awful lot of banging next door. Not heard much of that since - " Awkward pause. "... Everything alright?"

"Ah, yes, yes," John tried to smile, but it hurt his jaw, wincing. "I, ah... tripped and fell over Sherlock's old stuff, knocked everything over in the process. Cursed his name a lot. I'm fine. Really."

"Oh, dear me," Mrs. Hudson sighed. "It's not safe, is it, you can't keep leaving it all hanging around like this."

"I know, I know..."

"If you want me to come with you to one of the shops over the weekend, say, we can say goodbye to all those strange bits and bobs of his together."

"No, no, thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He gave her a strained smile, and her expression turned even more sympathetic. She patted his hand, her eyes sparkling and wet.

"Oh, John, love." She gave his hand a squeeze. "I know it's hard. But you've got to look after yourself, you know.

"I - don't worry, I am. I've been... making plans, in fact." He tried to give a more reassuring smile. "That's why I can't do it this weekend. But you know, I will. Eventually."

She gave him a smile. "Alright then. I'll catch you later. Do you need any milk?"

"No, I'm fine. Thank you."

Mrs. Hudson's footsteps soon returned to the stairs, slowly fading, followed by the sound of the front door closing. John let out a deep breath.

"Do you really have plans?" Sherlock asked, with interest, laptop in his hands as he returned to his seat in the living room.

"I plan to hear a full explanation out of you, Sherlock, before any other plans I may or may not have." John said, deciding to throw any and all attempts at a segue out of the window: this was important. "Where you've been. Everything."

"Understandable," Sherlock answered. He didn't look up from his laptop, busily typing, but his voice softened. "What did you want to know?"

John flopped back into his chair. He was tired. But could he rest not knowing? No. He had stayed up all night in the past with Sherlock investigating cases. He could fight his slow, numb brain, for this, he thought. But what to ask first?

He saw Sherlock look up at him, expectant for an answer to his question - and surprisingly, the other man's features arranged into a smile. "I'm aware that I owe you an explanation. It's not a one-time offer. You don't have to ask it all right now."

John relaxed slightly. "Good. That's... good," he said, vaguely.

"Which is probably for the best. Right now I actually need your help on an important case."

John froze, and then pushed himself out of his chair. "Oh my god. You've been less than five minutes back in this flat - "

"Forty minutes," Sherlock muttered.

" - and you already are trying to make everything go right back to normal." John's voice rose along with his temper. "Like none of it ever happened, like you didn't -"

He was suddenly aware of how loudly he was shouting, and took a deep breath. "No, Sherlock. No. I'm not doing it."

"But -"

"No, not right now."

John's blood was thudding in his ears, his feet were on autopilot as he picked up his jacket. "You do... whatever it is you need to do. I'm going out, then I'm going to bed. You know where everything is. Roughly."

And he stormed out.

Sherlock stared at the doorway for a few moments after the slamming of the front door. It had not been the reunion he had planned for.

But he had no time to stop and consider John's behaviour right now, returning his attention to his laptop. He had a lot of work to do.


End file.
